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Frontispiece: Fanny Cerrito, ca. 1855 - 60 (sec paa^c 121).
LINCOLN KIRSTEIN DONALD WINDHAM
BAIRD HASTINGS
PAUL MAGRIEL
The bouquet of varia presented in this
issue has been culled from the collection of
Joseph Cornell whose preoccupation with
the Romantic period was stimulated by the
foundation of the Dance Archives (now The
Dance and Theatre Collection of The
Museum of Modern Art), especially in its
beautifully arranged and, to him, truly en-
glamoured inaugural exhibition. Mr. Cor-
nell’s montage covers are already familiar to
our readers as are his creative “construc-
tions” to frequenters of art galleries and
museums.
We believe that all of the material pre-
sented in this issue, with an obvious excep-
tion or two, appears in print for the first
time since the revival of interest in the Ro-
mantic Era. And in this respect it is in
direct line with the purpose of Dance Index
in adding to the growing store of informa-
tion continually being unearthed by devotees
of the dance.
We wish to acknowledge with thanks the
permission of Little Brown and Company to
use Emily Dickinson’s poem “I cannot dance
upon my toes” reprinted from “Further
Poems of Emily Dickinson” edited by Martha
Dickinson Bianchi and Alfred Leete Hamp-
son; and the permission of Random House
and The Modern Library to reprint a pas-
sage from the story “The Poet” in Isak
Dinesen’s book, “Seven Gothic Tales.”
* * *
Dance Index is gathering information for
a complete catalogue of dance films, both
theatrical and ethnological, and, as many of
these are in private collections, requests that
everyone possessing information concerning
them get in touch with us. Thank you.
Subscription: 25c a month; $2.50 by the year Double issue 50c.
Copyright 1944, Dance Index — Ballet Caravan, Inc., 637 Madison .Avenue, New York 22, N. Y.
Vol. Ill, Nos. 7, 8. July, August, 1944.
design of this vol
ipn words which co:
technical terms i
rases from other la
books, with a brief d
s it is not possible, h<
as primitive words, ^
American “doodle” drawing (ca. 1850)
I CANNOT dance upon my toes,
No man instructed me,
Bnt often times among my mind
A glee possesseth me
That had I ballet knowledge
Would put itself abroad
In pirouette to blanch a troupe,
Or lay a Prima mad!
And though I had no gown of gauze,
No ringlet to my hair.
Nor hopped for audiences like birds.
One claw upon the air, —
Nor tossed my shape in
Eider balls.
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till T was out of sight in sound,
The house encored me so —
Nor any knew I know the art
I mention easy here —
Nor any placard boast me.
It’s full as opera!
OPPOSITE PAGE: Colored phenakistoscope disk from THE MAGIC WHEEL, an American
philosophical toy of the Civil War period. One of a series boxed with holder and mask, the
effect of motion being obtained by spinning disk on holder and viewing through apertures in
mask the reflection of the figures In a mirror. Same principle as the better known zoetrope.
104
aX
’uq
I
And then, my excellent friend, let me suggest that you only at-
tempt to execute the marvellous leap made, night after night, by ^
Carlotta in the Ballet of the “Peri.” Certainly, you may leave
grace out of the question. That I will not require from you. But
make the attempt, and if you do not break your leg, or
dislocate your neck, or sprain your ankle, or produce some
compound fracture or other, you will be a devilish clever
fellow. . . .
Let me tell you a little tale, which I chance to have the best
of reasons for knowing to be a fact. It touches on this very
bound, to which I have alluded, in the Ballet of the “Peri.”
Think first, what a wonderful leap it really is. Over the
summit of a painted waterfall which is twenty feet in height,
at the very least, this marvellous ball of feathers springs into
the arms of her saltatory admirer. Here she poises on one foot, '
as he bends either through admiration of her supposed loveliness,
or the actual weight of ber body, almost to the ground, in the ef-
fort to support her. At her first appearance in London, the first male
dancer’s role was in the hands of Petipas, — a pleasant and agreeable
\oung man who figured in the last French Revolution but two — and who was also the principal male
in the Ballet at the French Opera.
The “Peri” was produced at Drury Lane Theatre, with the most remarkable success. Carlotta
saved Bunn from closing his doors that season. On the third night that it was given, Petipas however
failed in the endeavor to retain Carlotta in his arms, when she bounded into them. She did not
actually fall, but reeled from him, down the whole length of the stage, at that time the largest in
London, until she at length managed to stop, staggering and close to the foot-lights. The gentleman
in the orchestra who played the double-bass and wore a pair of green spectacles, started back in horror
as that vision, in white muslin and silken fleshings, appeared above him. No sooner, however,, had
Carlotta recovered from the surprise and fright, occasioned by this mishap, than agitated as she was,
she went up to and spoke merely for a moment or two, with the Conductor. The music recommenced,
immediately, at that part of the Ballet, anterior to this daring bound. She said a few words to Peti-
]5as, and was then leaving the stage for the purpose of repeating it, when a simultaneous roar burst
from every part of the House.
“No! no! no!” “You shall not repeat it!” “Bravo! “Bravo!” “You’re a brave girl.” “Go on with the
Ballet!” “We will not have it again!”
And I am ashamed to say a rough voice shouted out from the gallery: “Better give Petipas a
glass of grog. He’s shaky on the pins.”
Carlotta looked round the House, astonished. This was not, however, at the observation from the
gallery — for she did not understand at this period, one word of English — and gazed
pleadingh- upon the faces of the audience. She was then vehemently applauded, and
during this, the Conductor, rose beckoned her towards him, and explained what the
clamor meant. Almost scarlet she flushed in one moment with surprise and gratitude —
pressed her hands upon her heart, and then vanished. In five minutes more, she had
repeated that daring bound. Petipas succeeded in catching her, although I saw him
shaking like an aspen, while he was waiting for her appearance over the top of
the cataract, and then the audience rose to their feet, and gave her three decided
cheers — such cheers as are seldom or never given in any Theatre.
Bunn had previously presented me to Carlotta, and in the course of the fol-
lowing morning I called upon her. Naturally enough, I alluded to the courage
she had shown on the preceding evening.
“And. do you reallv call that courage?” she asked with a curious smile.
“Very certainly I do,” was my answer.
“.\h!” she said, shaking her head “you are very good — very good, indeed.”
She then told me that the same chance, in this very leap, had occurred at
Paris, on the tenth or eleventh representation of the Ballet. There, however,
the audience had actually hissed her and Petipas, and she had been compelled
by them to repeat this bound three times, before they condescended to ap-
plaud her. “You Have Heard of Them” by Q
106
Sf^u€^/yi€)i}ie
I remember elegant Carlotta Grisi the dancer as a dazzling equestrienne in the Row, but I
never saw her on the stage. . . . But though Fanny Elssler, Perrot, Taglioni, Carlotta Grisi were
only names to me (as a boy, I remember I was as utterly astonished at Carlotta’ being able to ride,
and actually cantering about the Row, just as an y pretty lady might have done, one of my own
cousins, for example, and with nice people, too, as was innocent Mr. Pickwick when Sergeant Buzfuz
wished Sergeant Snubbin “a good morning,” . . . )
“Records & Reminiscences” by Sir Francis C. Burnand
^recced
“Vabre translated aloud to me, book in hand,
passages from ‘Hamlet,’ ‘Othello,’ and ‘King Lear,’ with
a local savour, an accuracy of expression, and a penetra-
tion of the meaning which made them sound wholly
new to me. I also heard him explain — with a view to
composing a ballet — to Carlotta Grisi, who was then
dancing in London, “The Tempest’ and ‘A Midsummer
Night’s Dream’ in the most poetic and ingenious fashion.
If the proposed ballets had been written, the parts of
Miranda and Titania would have been thoroughly
understood by their lovely interpreter.”
“The Miraculous Comrade” — Theophile Gautier
Popular illustration to “The Tempest”
107
I have indulged in this explanatory prelude to show what a puppet is a human being in the hands
of Fate, and that, in spite of his will or wishes, a man may be suddenly precipitated into a posi-
tion diametrically opposed to his views, and wholly unforeseen in his wildest fancies. This was just
my unlucky experience, as the following narrative will prove. From a friendly motive I was drawn
into a connection that finally enveloped me like a net, and neither caution or apprehension preven-
ted my becoming an instrument in an enterprise in which not only I had no interest, but every induce-
ment to evade. The comical part of it was that it scattered to the winds my love of privacy, to say
nothing of my craving for high respectability.
It was a lovely morning in July, and I was absorbed in a speech of Burke’s, when the door of
my library was thrown open, and the servant announced, ‘Mr. Stephen Price.’ I jumped up in sur-
prise, exclaming,
‘My dear Price, delighted to see you! When did you come to Paris? You are the last man I ex-
pected to meet’
My visitor took no notice of my gushing welcome, but, deliberately depositing his hat and stick
on a table, sat down in his gruff way, and looked me steadly in the face. There was something in
his eyes and manner that indicated a settled purpose of some sort. I have already described him as
an oddity, and I always dreaded any collision, knowing his arbitrary temper.
‘I have come here expressly to see you,’ he began. ‘Don’t interrupt me; I want to ask a service.
You are just the man for my project.’
‘It will give me the greatest pleasure to oblige you,’ I said, without hesitation.
‘I am utterly ruined, on the verge of bankruptcy,’ he continued, without change of countenance.
‘I am deeply shocked to hear it,’ I added, not a little moved.
‘Now listen to me,’ he said emphatically. ‘I have hit on a plan to retrieve my fortunes. I want to
engage Fanny Elssler for my theatre in New York for forty-nights. I will give her half the houses,
less the expenses. This ought to put 30,000 dollars in my pocket, which will tide me over my difficul-
ties. Will you aid me?’
I was astounded at the proposition, and felt inclined to reject it instantly. Yet his situation touched
me. After pondering a moment, I said.
“Another companion, somewhat mysterious was a M. Wikoff, mentioned by Catherine Prinster in
ambiguous terms. She presents him as a chaperone engaged in good and due form but leaving us in doubt as to
his exact status. Americans were scandalized at the spectacle of this “chevalier attendant” following so closely in
the train of this famous woman. One paper, the “Corsaire’,’ became the mouthpiece of outraged decency. ‘Why,*
it asked, ‘Is she still called Fanny Elssler? She is no longer Fanyy Elssler, but Mme. W.’ ... It was even said
that she had disappeard from Philadelphia, kidnapped by this M. W. . . . The “Courrier de New York’* protested
against all these rumors. Fanny Elssler, it said emphatically, ‘is not Mme. W ... at all, the way that some
of her miserable detractors imagine. M. W.’s relation to her is traveling companion, a special friend to whom
she has entrusted herself in coming to a strange land, and who discharges the obligations of that confidence with
all the refinement of a gentleman and with a purity of affection which only perverted minds can fail to recognize
as disinterested!
‘‘And who would wish to be put down as a per verted mind or question the spotless innocence of M.
Wikoff, so correctly vouched for by this paper?”
Fanny Elssler by Auguste Ehrhard Paris 1909.
IC8
‘She would be as likely to embark for the moon as go to to America. The one she has seen, but
probably never heard of the other. Besides, the director of the Opera would oppose it desperately.
Moreover, I don’t know her.’
Clouds gathered on his brow, and he replied, in a testy tone,
‘These obstacles could be overcome if you desired to serve me. Do you refuse?’
‘No,’ I answered blandly; ‘but I would like to think it over.’
‘No time for that,’ he replied, rising. ‘I must return to London at once. I am in great trouble.
May I rely upon you?’
‘Yes. What can I do?’
‘Get me an interview with Fanny Elssler,’ he demanded. ‘After that I will leave the negotiation
in your hands.’
‘Fortunately,’ I remarked, ‘I know the Marquis de Lavalette, the chief adviser of the brilliant
artist. If I get his adhesion, it will facilitate matters.’
‘If you wish it,’ he added, ‘I will ask my friend Frank Corbin to assist you.’
‘Do so, it may be useful; but I will see the Marquis to-day, and send you his impression. I trust,
for your sake, he will not oppose the project.
‘You understand me,’ he persisted. ‘The engagement is vital to my interests. I count on your in-
fluence and tact. Will you help me?’ and he took me nervously by the hand.
‘I will do my best to accomplish your object,’ I assured him earnestly.
He went away, and left me quite bewildered. I regarded the job with repugnance. Yet what could
I do? The appeal was from an old man, in broken health and stricken by misfortune. He had lavished
hospitality on me without stint in London. Should I withhold my hand in an emergency like this? It
would have been unfeeling to do so.
I startedi off instantly to the Jockey Club to hunt up the Marquis de Lavalette, who was the pres-
iding genius of that fashionable resort. This gentleman was a descendant of an old family and a mem-
ber of the Diplomatic Corps, which did not prevent him dabbling in theatricals, leading an active
club life, and giving much attention to the turf. He was a handsome man of thirty-three, of pleasing
and distinguished manners, remarkable for acuteness of mind, and withal so energetic in purpose that
he rarely failed in what he undertook. Activity and tact were his salient traits. He was a great authority
in the artistic world, and all-potential with the peerless danseuse. I broached to him the scheme of
Mr. Price, and, to my surprise, he favoured it. I learned his reasons later. After a chat, he said,
‘Come with youit friend to-morrow at two p.m. to the residence of Mdlle. Elssler, and I will
present you.’
I wrote promptly to the manager to join me before the designated hour, which he did, and we
drove off to our rendez-vous in the Rue Lafitte.
Mdlle. Elssler occupied the chief part of a mansion in this central position, and mounting to the
premier we passed through several richly-furnished rooms, and were ushered into her boudoir, where
we found the Marquis in earnest parley with the diva of the dance.
She received us with exceeding courtesy, and the conversation forthwith began. The Marquis
spoke English perfectly, and translated at intervals to the lady what passed between him and Mr. Price.
The length of the engagement proposed, the time, and the terms were all fully discussed; and whilst
this was going on I had abundant opportunity to contemplate this celebrated woman. I was struck by
her quiet lady-like appearance. She was above medium height, and divinely formed, as I had often
seen on the stage. Her features were well shaped, and the eyes of dark gray, wonderfully soft and gentle.
Her head was beautifully shaped, the countenance singularly sweet and winning. The voice, too, was
low and musical. Every movement was the incarnation of grace. What puzzled me was that so meek
and placid a creature should have made such a furore in Europe, on and off the stage.' One would
have supposed, from her retiring air and modest deportment, that she had been reared in a convent,
or had budded in some ‘cool sequestered vale,’ far away from the haunts of men and the purlieus of
the opera-house. Could she be as innocent and confiding as she looked? Had the admiration of suitors,
the enthusiasm of multitudes, the homage of princes, fallen unnoticed on the ground? Could she
have walked, or rather danced, over so many hot ploughshares without scorching her tiny feet? Was
it possible to live in the malarious atmosphere in which she had been bred, and preserve purity of
mind, goodness of heart, and sincerity of character? It seemed to me well-nigh incredible. During
the colloquy of the Marquis and my friend Price she rarely spoke, simply nodding her head as the
main points were interpreted, whilst I busied myself with the reflections just expressed. At the close
Mr. Price said he must return forthwith to London, and would leave me to arrange the details, if
Mdlle. Elssler accepted the engagement.
‘A mighty simple unpretending sort of a body,’ observed the manager, as we wended our way
homewards. ‘I expected something very different. I fancy she is quite under the tutelage of the Marquis.
If you win him over, you’U have little trouble with her, I feel sure.’
109
‘Just as I told you,’ was my reply.
‘Well, the affair begins favourably,’ he remarked. ‘I am off tonight. All now depends on you,
and if you succeed I shall be profoundly grateful. I have no other hope.’
‘I shall not fail for want of effort,’ I answered, ‘and begin to feel more sanguine.’
He shook me cordially by the hand at parting, and said all he could to stimulate my zeal.
I was now resolved to go on with this business, which at first awakened my dread. It was quite
out of my line, and might involve unpleasant associations. But the embarassed situation of my friend,
who gave me fuller details than related, aroused my sympathies, whilst the pleasing well-bred de-
meanour of Mdlle. Elssler diminished many objections.
* * ♦
‘You must see Mdlle. Elssler as often as convenient,’ he said, ‘and remove her apprehensions
of so perilous an enterprise, as she regards it. Already the interested and ignorant people about her
are describing the risks and terrors of the barbarousland she talks of visiting. They tell her it is filled
with savages and wild beasts, and I daresay they think so. They declare her graceful art would be
derided and denounced, and that if she ventured to show her ankles, much more her legs, an outcry
of horror would be raised, and she would probably be prosecuted for indecency. You must undertake
to disabuse her mind of these absurdities, which she hardly knows whether to believe or not; and if
you find her tractable, we will then set to work at the engagement.’
This was the substance of several conversations with the Marquis, and I cheerfully agreed to
enter the lists against the defamers of the state and refinement of my maligned country'.
I called occasionally on the famous danseuse, and was invariably charmed by her affability and
elegance. I could not question her natural intelligence; but it was blended with an ingenuousness very
rare in the world, and still more on the stage. It was long before I could be convinced that this was
all genuine, and not merely the skilful dissimulation of a consummate actress. I ridiculed the amus-
ing fabrications of her visitors respecting the sauvagerie of the United States, and guaranteed her a
reception that would throw the enthusiasm of other countries she had vanquished into the shade. Such
art as hers, I assured her, had never been seen there, and, united with so much beauty and grace,
would be quite a revelation, that would yield results in fame and profit beyond her most sanguine
calculations. By degrees she seemed to give me her confidence; for, though artless by disposition, her
experience had taught her caution, and she felt doubt more than suspicion of the motives of men.
As might have been foreseen, the Marquis de L. had a tough job in seeking to overcome the
obstinate resistance of the new director of the Opera, M. Duponchel, to part for even a limited pe-
riod with one of his greatest attractions; and as the struggle was likely to last for some weeks I de-
termined on a brief excursion to London, to look up some of my old friends I knew were residing in
the vicinity.
A fortnight soon vanished in skipping about to various villas in the environs of London, and in-
tercourse with the hospitable, sociable English, always unaffected and natural, I soon discovered had
lost none of its attractions. I dined one day in town with Mr. Price, who was full of nervous anxiety
about the engagement of Mdlle. Elssler for New York; but I bade him be of good cheer, as I thought
the prospect of success was brightening steadily. He pressed me to return to Paris, lest some hitch
might ensue from my absence, and I was on the point of yielding to his solicitations, when a kind
invitation came from Lady Blessington to join her party for a few days on the seacost of Sussex. I
could not resist this tempting opportunity to enjoy in the solitude of the country, away from the
glare and rattle of the town, the society of this very fascinating woman.
* * *
Soon after my return to Paris I met the Marquis de Lavalette, who told me with lively satisfac-
tion that, after much difficulty, he had obtained for Mdlle. Elssler a conge of six months, which
would enable her to make the voyage to America. He proposed, therefore, to commence forthwith the
discussions respecting her engagement, and we had repeated interviews to that effect. By the end of
September we had settled all the necessary details, and the convenant was drawn up in due form.
Without copying the clauses, the agreement especially bound Mdlle. Fanny Elssler to be at New York
in the beginning of April 1840, and to play and dance at the Park Theatre for thirty-six nights, to
the end of June ensuing. Further, it was stipulated that the receipts for each night were to be equally
divided between the said Price and the said Elssler, after a deduction of 150 dollars per night, save
on her benefit-nights, when the receipts were to be divided without any deduction.
On the 8th of October the Marquis and I repaired to the abode of Mdlle. Elssler to sign the im-
portant document, big with the fate of the New York Park Theatre. I appended my name on behalf
of my principal. Price; Fanny affixed hers with a sort of trepidation; and the Marquis signed as wit-
ness. So the die was cast. Fanny Elssler was now bound to exhibit to Transatlantic eyes her splendid
feats and magnificent person, or pay a heavy forfeit; whilst my friend Price could reasonably expect
to meet all his obligations and set the demon of bankruptcy at defiance.
hO
I mused for some time over the singular position in which I found myself. Here was I saddled
with the supervision of the peerless Fanny Elssler; constituted by her own wish, and at the entreaty
of her confidential friend, her chief adviser. It was flattering enough to have the exclusive charge of
such a lovely woman, the idol of Paris; but might it not involve me in a vortex of demoralising oc-
cupations wholly foreign to my life, and in conflict with my aforesaid notions of respectability? It is
true I had a decided bias for the theatrical profession, and counted many of its members among my
esteemed friends. Yet hitherto I had to do chiefly with its male representatives, and had but little inti-
macy with the heroines of the stage. Whether that was. accident, or whether I dreaded the danger of
such seductive contact, I know not, but up to this time it had not occurred. It was passing strange
that I had been suddenly converted into the confidant, not only of a female artist, but of a danseuse,
whose fascinations had turned so many heads. I feared I was on an inclined plane, and that if I did
not look carefully after my foothold I might be launched into unknown perplexities. At all events,
by the terms of her contract, the fair Fanny would be compelled to leave Paris in three or four months,
when I should be restored to my former status of a man of leisure. Meanwhile, my sympathy for the
embarrassed Price stimulated me to prevent any obstacles arising that might impede her departure.
I did not fancy the new line of business in which I had got entangled, but it was no small comfort to
feel sure that my probation could not extend over many weeks.
I had kept up a steady correspondence with Mr. Price since his departure for New York. He
continued to feel anxious as to the fulfilment of Mdlle. Elssler’s engagement, upon which his fortunes
depended. I informed him immediately of the signingof the contract, and assured him of my belief
of its being duly carried out. The opposition to Fanny’s departure from Paris seemed to increase every
day, inside and outside the opera house. The public were indignant at the loss of their favourite, whilst
the director of the Opera, more alive than ever to her immense popularity, began to exert his utmost
influence to induce her to abandon her project. He oflered at last, if she would throw over her con-
tract, to pay all the damages, and to augment her salary besides. The most ingenious manoeuvres, the
most unscrupulous intrigues, were resorted to, but in vain. The upright Fanny stood her ground
firmly, resisting blandishments and defying auguries alike.
In my letters I had acquainted Mr. Price of all the artifices and crafty devices employed to
defeat Fanny’s American expedition, and in one of his replies from New York, dated towards the end
of December, he wrote to the following effect:
My dear Wikofl, — I have received your letter of Nov. 30 by the ‘Great Western,’ and sincerely
thank you for the trouble you have taken and the friendly interest you manifest in my affairs. The
schemes to which you allude to obstruct Elssler’s departure are no doubt quite new to you; but I
have seen too much of actors and dancers not to understand their manoeuvres, and to be able to ex-
plain them to you. Augusta (a popular danseuse) , of course, wants to prevent Elssler coming to New
York. -And why? Augusta has been a great favourite here, and intends soon to return; but if Elssler
arrives, then Augusta will do no good by coming, as she will be of little importance to the audiences
which have once admired Elssler. Now, if she could persuade Elssler not to come, and so keep a dan-
gerous rival out of the field, the harvest would be all her own. Taglioni’s sister-in-law will play the
same game. She and her husband Paul left here last September, giving out to friends and managers
their intention to return next July. Should Elssler come meanwhile, their attraction would be ruined;
and they have therefore the same motives as Augusta in striving by all means to prevent it. So much
for Augusta’s and Taglioni’s little games, and I hope Elssler has too much sagacity to be entrapped
by them.
The eflect of the various bank suspensions has produced much general distress and confusion in
New York. The depreciation of their paper, with the adherence to specie payments, has caused
money to be very scarce. The theatres have felt the pressure very severely, and, as might have been
expected, Wallack has given up, after compelling his friend and moneyed supporter. Wash. Coster,
to sell off furniture, plate, horses, and everything tangible, and to make an assignment of his real
estate, to avoid the eflect of executions for the amount — said to be enormous — of his sureties and
indorsements for Wallack. The boasted success of the National has been mere deception. Every week
it was open the loss only increased, and, even with the low portion of the press to bolster him up,
he is at this moment helpless. His immense debts, here and in England, must be cleared off be-
fore he can start again; and he will then be fortunate if, after numerous failures, he finds another
fool to trust him.
You may rely upon my exertions to produce the ballets of Elssler to the very best eflect ; and if
she will provide the music, and get the business well described, all shall be well got up. I will defray
all the expenses. Urge her to be here as much before the 1st of April as possible. We shall be ready
for her. Money affairs are slowly getting better, and everything reviving fast. There is now no opposi-
tion, and her success must be triumphant. The suggestion of securing Petipas, the male dancer, is
good, and I havel set my agents about effecting it. Don’t allow Elssler to neglect sending the music-
score for the orchestra, which I will pay for; or if you will advance the sum necessary, Mrs. Price
will repay you, or I will pay here to your order. I don’t mean this to go beyond three or four
ballets.
Forrest called on me to-day, and I delivered your message to him. And now, my dear Wikoff, I
conclude this long scrawl by repeating to you that the execution of Elssler’s agreement is to me all-
important. I have relied upon it; have devoted an excellent part of my season to it; and without her
I shall be unprovided. Let me hope you will not relax in your kind efforts to bring it about. — etc.
* * *
... As the time of her departure approached her preparations grew more active. She made ex-
tensive purchases of costumes, and ordered prodigious supplies of white-satin slippers for her ballets,
of which she consumed two pairs a night. Her farewell houses at the Opera were crowded and en-
thusiastic, though the public were still sceptical of her bold design of going to America. Towards the
end of January, M. Laporte came to Paris to engage her for a few nights at Her Majesty’s Opera in
London. As she felt herself incompetent to deal with so crafty a man of business, she referred him
to me, as her confidential friend; and a contract was duly drawn up for her appearance thrice a
week in London during the month of March; terms, 2500 francs each performance, to be paid the
following morning. M. Laporte stickled at such prompt payment, but yelded. I was gradually getting
immersed up to my eyes in Fanny’s affairs, and began to long for her speedy exit from Paris.
* * *
•As the London season was approaching, Mrs. Grote felt it necessary to bring her visit to Paris
to a conclusion; and her reluctance to part with her beloved Fanny was less as she looked forward
to meeting her soon again in London. Before she left she announced her intention to ‘build up’ a
soiree in honour of her idol, as she desired some of her intimate friends to see what a charming person
the celebrated dancer really was. She made no revelation to Fanny or to me as to the persons she had
invited, but merely said they were very limited, and that all were desirous to meet the object of her
predilection.
On entering her salon on the night in question, I was hardly less than astounded at sight of
the extraordinary group Mrs. Grote had assembled for the occasion. I recognised the Count de To-
cqueville, the illustrious author of Democracy in America, which had been universally pronounced
the most remarkable book of the century, and had raised its writer to an immense eminence. Gustave
de Beaumont, just elected a deputy, and who had been sent, in 1832, by the Government of the United
States with M. de Tocqueville, to examine our penitentiary system, was another guest. His wife, a
granddaughter of Lafayette, was also present. Victor Cousin, who had founded the new school of
philosophy, and was considered the most gifted of contemporary writers, was talking with Mrs. Grote
when I entered. There were two or three others of almost equal celebrity. Since the world began, I do
not believe an opera-dancer ever found her way into such a circle as this. That was my inward conclu-
sion when I had once looked round upon the gathering. I could not help regarding this as a most
extraordinary freak of Mrs. Grote; but as she had notified her friends of the treat in store for them,
they could not complain of being taken by surprise.
In chatting with M. de Tocqueville, who was a very sedate but soft-mannered man, he remarked,
in an explanatory way: ‘I have come with my wife to-night to bid good-bye to our esteemed friend
Mrs. Grote, and she has asked permission to present to us her latest whim, in the shape of Fanny
Elssler, the popular dancer. It seems to me Horace must have had in his eye just such a person
as our friend when he wrote the phrase. Nil fuit unquam sic impar sibi, for, without knowing it, she is
full of vagaries and strange inconsistencies. But she is a good-hearted creature, to say nothing of
her extraordinary' intellect; and it would have grieved her sorely if we had baulked her fancy in not
coming here. Besides, my wife was really curious to see this celebrated artist, of whom Mrs. Grote had
related so many piquant stores.’ Whilst we were still talking Mdlle. Fanny Elssler was announced, and
every one turned round to contemplate her. She was simply attired in a robe of black velvet, and
wore very little ornament. Her easy graceful manner, as she crossed the room to greet her hostess,
charmed the ocmpany. If she had passed her whole life amid philosophers and members of the In-
stitute, she could not have been more natural and unembarrassed, yet modest withal. Her engaging sim-
plicity, repose, and elegance gradually won upon the sympathies of all, who found it difficult to recon-
cile their preconceived notions of the brilliant danseuse with the quiet unpretending person before
them.
The conversation went on, and by degrees, toMrs. Grote’s great delight, one after another of the
distinguished guests desired to make Fanny’s acquaintance; and all found her in converse quite as
charming as she looked. Cousin the philosopher, a sprightly and agreable man, seemed especiallv
captivated, and kept up a long and animated parley with her. It could not be questioned that Fanny
had made a decided hit before an entirely new audience; and she could not have been more admired
if, enveloped in the fleecy white drapers- of La Tarentule, she had regaled the company with some
of those splendid evolutions and twinkling petits pas which were wont to throw the opera-house into
spasms of delight. This was Fanny’s first and last appearance before a conclave representing the
highest regions of philosophy and literature; for shortly after, Mrs. Grote returned to London, and
the artist went back to her familiar haunts and usual avocations, quite oblivious, probably uncon-
scious, that she had bewitched a philosopher, or figured in the society of the elite of the world of
letters.
Barely a week had elapsed after Fanny had taken wing, when a letter reached me from Phila-
delphia, announcin.g the sudden death of my guardian, Mr. S. P. Wetherill, and desiring my immediate
return to take possession of my property, which had always remained in his hands. This melancholy
event shocked me deeply, but I was actually dumbfounded it should have occured at this precise
juncture. I foresaw at a glance that if I left at once for America I could not possibly escape being
more or less mixed up with Fanny’s theatrical campaign. She would naturally appeal to me for
assistance, and on what pretext could I refuse, after having so largely contributed to her going there
at all? I thought, when she left Paris, my intervention in her affairs was at an end; but now, by a
stroke of destiny wholly unforeseen, I was likely to be plunged into them deeper than ever. Thus it
seemed that all my prudence, self-control, and laudable intentions were shivered to fragments by the
iron mallet of fate, and no option left but to submit to events utterly beyond my command.
■X- *
By this time my mind had calmed down, and I yielded pliantly to the inevitable. Without more
ado, I secured a berth on the ‘Great Western’ steamer, to leave Bristol on April 15th. I wondered
whether Fanny would go in this vessel or her rival, the ‘British Queen,’ from London. Perhaps she
might not go at all.
* * *
I complied with Fanny’s wish, and had a long chat with her in the afternoon. She was in ecstasies
at my departure for America.
‘To tell you the truth,’ she confessed, ‘as the moment approached my dread increased, and it
appeared to me sheer insanity to start off alone to a foreign land so far away, whose language and
customs I was ignorant of. I had almost resolved, in spite of ridicule and loss, to renounce the wild
enterprise, when Mrs. Grote told me you were obliged to go home on pressing business. I was over-
joyed at the intelligence, and now I look forward with delight to this strange and exciting expedi-
tion. All the Americans I have seen inspire me with confidence. They seem so frank, truthful, and
deferential to women that I have fallen in love with their country before seeing it.’
* ■*■ *
I had just finished breakfast next morning when the waiter announced that a gentleman wished
to see me immediately on business. I ordered him to be admitted; and in a few moments a stout man,
done up in a spruce suit of black, with a large round visage and bright eye, entered the room. He
handed me his card: ‘Mr. H. Placide, of New York.’ It was the inimitable actor of that name, and
a person of great respectability.
‘I thought I knew your face,’ I said, ‘but did not dream you were in London.’
‘Just arrived,’ he stated, ‘and have been in pursuit of you ever since. I have brought a letter
from Mr. Simpson, who sent me over;’ and he handed it to me.
‘I have been expecting it for some days,’ I observed; and, with an ‘Allow me,’ broke it open and
read as follows:
New York, March 19, 1846
Dear Sir, — Since I wrote you last I have received your favour informing me that you had sig-
ned an agreement with Mdlle. Elssler on my part, which I sincerely regret I cannot ratify. I was
willing to take up Mr. Price’s arrangement with her, and so offered; but certainly never would con-
sent to her altereing the time fixed for her appearing here, or making myself liable to a forfeit of
2500 dollars. Presuming that on Mdlle. Elssler’s hesitation to accept the ratification of Mr. Price’s
engagement by me that she would decline coming altogether, I have made arrangements that will
preclude the possibility of her beginning here before the 18th of May. That period is much too late;
and for the sake of all parties I would advise her to remain in Europe till the next season. Mr. Pla-
cide will see you and tbe lady on the subject, and will make every arrangement necessary to that
end. I sincerely regret the trouble you have had in this disagreable business, and thank you most cor-
dially for your kindness. — Very truly yours,
H. Wikoff, Esq. E. Simpson.
Fanny’s campaign was thus summarily disposed of till next year. It was a stroke of luck for
me; but I knew it would be a cruel blow for her. Goncealing my emotions, that were conflicting, I
said, in a careless way:
‘As Mr. Simpson rejects the contract I signed on his behalf, my function are at an end. It is
idle to talk of Mdlle. Elssler’s visit for next season, as it is out of the question.,’
113
‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Mr. Placide, much astonished, ‘why is that?’
‘Simply,’ I continued, ‘because her leave of absence from the Opera expires in September, and
cannot be renewed. She must go now, or never.’
‘Good gracious! how unfortunate!’ he returned. ‘Mr. Simpson never anticipated such a dif-
culty; and you know it would be far better to begin in New York in September than the middle of
May.’
‘I grant it,’ was my reply; ‘but you see it is impossible.’
A pause ensued, whilst Simpson’s ambassador pondered deeply. At last, raising his head, he
asked :
‘What’s to be done? I can arrange nothing, save for next season.’
‘I will see Mdlle. Elssler and her advisers,’ I informed him, ‘and write to you to-morrow. How-
ever, the business, it strikes me, is at an end.’
He thanked me, and went away much perple.xed.
I drove straightway to Mrs. Grote.
‘I have news at last,’ I said on entering her boudoir, ‘but ruinous for Fanny.’
I handed her Simpson’s letter, which she perused eagerly.
‘It is crushing, indeed,’ she ejaculated, looking quite distressed. ‘It will almost break her heart,
she is so deeply committed and has spent so much money. Is there no remedy, no loophole?’
‘I ought to be content,’ I replied, ‘with the turn affairs have taken, for it frees me from all con-
tingencies; but I find my sympathies stronger than my discretion.’
‘You are not the preux chevalier I took you for, if that were not the case.’
‘I have thought it all over,’ I continued, ‘and Fanny must be saved.’
‘But how?’
‘I will see Mrs. Price and secure her adhesion. A new contract must then be drawn up, guaran-
teeing fifteen or twenty performances, during May and June, in New York. We will all combine and
make Simpson’s agent sign this, which will bind his principal.’
‘That will do admirably,’ cried Mrs. Grote, elated. ‘I will draw up the engagement at once. You
see Mrs. Price; she is most anxious to have Fanny go, and will bring all her influence to bear.’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ I entreated, ‘not a syllabe to Fanny of what has happened. It would worry
her dreadfully, and she has need of all her strength. For the last three months she has been under
a tremendous strain of mind and body.’
‘No, not a syllable till something is decided,’ said Mrs. G. compassionately. ‘Poor dear thing! It
would break her down, I am sure.’
I had a long chat with Mrs. Price, who was in terror at the engagement falling through, as she
expected a considerable sum from it as lessee of the theatre. She adopted my plan readily, and said
she would sign if Placide refused.
‘Yet,’ I said, ‘Simpson is locum tenens,’ which I explained to her, ‘and I prefer the signature of
his agent.’
‘Then,’ she declared energetically, ‘we must make him sign.’
I proposed she should write to Placide to meet us both at Mrs. Grote’s house the next day, at
two o’clock, which she undertook. I wrote to Mrs. Grote of the rendezvous arranged, and she re-
ported the contract was ready.
We all met, as agreed, and a tedious sitting we had of it. Placide was conscientious, careful, and
even timid. He had the greatest dread or exceeding his authority, and of ‘putting his foot in it,’ as
he phrased it.
‘I know,’ he stated, ‘that Mr. Simpson has made arrangements for May and June; and how can
he get out of them?’
‘Buy out,’ I suggested ; it would not cost much ; and let the expense be divided between him,
Mrs. Price, and Mdlle. Elssler.’
‘I consent,’ said Mrs. Price promptly.
‘I see,’ continued Placide, much bothered, ‘the contract says we must provide a corps de ballet.
We have no such thing, and don’t know what it is.’
We all laughed at this candid sally.
‘Then,’ I added, ‘Mdlle. Elssler must manufacture one on the spot.’
‘But, believe me,’ persisted the nervous delegate, ‘the result is doubtful; business is so bad in New
York — no money in the country.’
‘Fudge!’ contended Mrs. Grote. ‘Fanny will dance everything to rights again. Go and see her;
I’ll give you a stall.’
After some two hours the anxious agent was badgered into signing the agreement, when he sat
down, took out his bandana (as big as a flag), and sopped the perspiration streaming in torrents down
his honest face.
Only three days remained before my departure, and every minute was mortgaged.
On Saturday night Fanny made her farewell appearance. It was a scene of splendour and ex-
citement I never saw equalled. The young Queen and her hadsome husband and suite were there.
Prince Louis Napoleon and entourage occupied a conspicous bo.x. The house was densely packed,
and the prices demanded were unprecedented.
The enthusiasm knew no bounds. Poor Fanny was called on incessantly, and almost smothered
under bouquets and wreaths. She seemed quite affected by the demonstrations. As the curtain fell at
the close the occupants of the ‘omnibus box,’ Count D’Orsay, Lord Chesterfield, Sir George Womb-
well, and others, cried out repeatedly, ‘Bon voyage! Bon voyage!’
I began on Sunday morning by breakfasting with Mr. R. M. Milnes at his quarter in Pall Mall.
He was a member of Parliament, but more celebrate in literature. He had written several poems of
striking merit that are destined to live. He was bland in address, and most impressive in conversation.
On my return to the hotel, I found Placide anxiously waiting for me. He said he had received une.x-
pected news from New York, that would doubtless be most unpleasant to Mdlle. Elssler and her
friends.
‘Indeed!’ I interjected; ‘and what may it be?’
‘I had a letter,’ he continued, ‘last night from Mr. Simpson, who says the business was so bad,
he had closed the theatre, and disnjissed his company.’
This was a thunder-clap, and for a moment I was silent.
‘You remember,’ he added, ‘I said it was wiser to adjourn the affair till September. It would be
rank folly for Mdlle. Elssler to begin in May; and, financially, the time is most unpropitious. How-
ever, it is out of the! question now.
‘I see it is,’ I slowly replied; ‘and perhaps it is all for the best.’
‘Will you kindlv convey the facts to Miss Fannv and Mrs. Grote?’
‘I will.’
‘And should you feel disposed to draw up another contract for next season, I shall be happy
to call.’
‘I will let you know,’ were my last words as he bade me good-morning.
I sat me down and examined the situation calmly, but fully. For weeks the papers of Paris and
London had discussed Fanny’s visit to the UnitedStates. She had obtained six months’ leave from the
Opera, and had nearly drained her pursue in preparations. Worse than all, her mind was so set upon
it, and her feelings so stirred by the reception she was told awaited her in New York, that a collapse
now would be an overwhelming shock. At all events, I was completely emancipated by Simpson’s
act of shutting up shop, and could now go tranquilly home, transact my business, and return to Paris
and my old haunts. What should I do? I asked myself over and over again, as I paced up and down
my room. ‘Shall I leave Fanny to her fate and her tears? Can there be a doubt of her success, even
in the month of May, and with trade languishing?’ This was the vital point. ‘No,’ I exclaimed, after
deep rumination, ‘not a shadow of doubt. If this opportunity is lost, she will forfeit a large sum and
immense prestige.’ .And the widow of my old friend, Mrs. Price, who counted anxiously on the
gains of Fanny’s engagement. At last I gave way to my feelings, not knowing or caring what it might
cost. It was rash; but young men, especially of the sentimental sort, will commit follies.
Putting on my hat, I drove off to Tavistock-square.
‘Do you know the Park Theatre is closed?’ I asked Mrs. Price.
‘Placide has told me so,’ she responded, ‘and I am grieved beyond measure.’
‘Will you put it in my hands?’ I demanded. ‘I will pay anything in reason.’
‘Cheerfully,’ she said, astonished. ‘But what do you mean?’
‘I mean to take Fanny over on Wednesday’s steamer, appoint a manager when I arrive, and open
the house.’
‘Capital!’ she cried, delighted. ‘Will she go without an engagement? I fear not.’
‘I will not tell her what has happened,’ I said. ‘I will take her hazard and pay the loss, if there
be any. Not a word to Fanny nor to Mrs. Grote, still less to Placide. There is no time to wrangle. The
day after to-morrow we must leave.’
‘Not a word,’ she promised emphatically. ‘It might spoil all.’
‘Then meet me at Paddington Station on Tuesday at nine A. M.,’ I proposed, ‘and we will all
start together. I am sanguine.’
‘So am I,’ she asserted, and her eyes sparkled at the venture.
Women always like a risk. I called on Fanny in the afternoon. I thought it best to sound her. I
might, even in my desire to serve her, go too far. She received me with heartiness, but blamed me
for neglecting her.
‘You hardly know how busy I have been,’ I replied. ‘I come now to make a reconnaissance. How
are your nerves? Are you ready for the jump? On Tuesday we are off for America.’
‘Yes,’ she declared, her face flushing; ‘my heart bounds at the thought. I am eager for the hour
of departure.’
« * *
We embarked on a lovely morning, April 15 th . . . .A chill shot through me with the first turn
of the wheels, as our gallant craft moved off. I felt I was taking a leap in the dark, and if I had known
the precise habitation of my guardian angel, I would have sent thither a strong appeal to guide my
faltering steps.
(From the memories of Henry Wikoff)
The portraits surrounding the original
photograph on the opposite page are taken
from a libelous collection of caricatures
entitled “The Sad Tale of the Courtship
of the Chevalier Slyfox Wikof” published
by Dick & Fitzgerald, New York City.
1 16
the Chevalier to be like.
What the London Times
says he is like — a Russian
Spy.
What a respectable Father
of a family declares he is
like — a bold marauder mak-
ing off with his female prey
on his shoulders — in his
arms, with the divine Fan-
ny cutting a piroutte on
his head.
What his lady Love wishes him to be like.
What ihe boarding-school
Miss dreams him like — an
Italian Brigand.
What the diplomats of Eu-
rope think he is like — a
Cute Yankee.
What the lady of fashion
fancies he is like — a second
Sir Harcourt Courtley.
66
LA JOLIE BA YADERE
I went last night to the French opera, to see the first
dancer of the world. The prodigious enthusiasm about her,
all over Europe, had, of course, raised my expectations to
the highest possible pitch. “Have you seen Taglioni?” is the
first question addressed to a stranger in Paris; and you
hear her name constantly over all the hum of the cafes and
r’ '■ crowded resorts of fashion. The house was over-
flowed. The king and his numerous family were present;
and my companion pointed out to me many of the nobilty,
whose names and titles have been made familiar to our
ears by the innumerable private memoirs and auto-
biographies of the day. After a little introductory piece,
the king arrived, and, as soon as the cheering was over,
the curtain drew up for “Le Dieu et la Bayadere.’' This is
the piece in which Taglioni is most famous. She takes the
part of a dancing girl, of whom the Bramah and an Indian
prince are both enamored; the former in the disguise of a
man of low rank at the court of the latter, in search of some
one whose love for him shall be disinterested. The disguised god succeeds in winning her affection,
and, after testing her devotion by submitting for a while to the resentment of his rival, and by a pre-
tended caprice in favor of a singing girl, who accompanies her, he marries her, and then saves her
from the flames as she is about to be burned for marrying beneath her caste. Taglioni’s part is all pan-
tomime. She does not speak during the play, but her motion is more than articulate. Her first appear-
ance was in a troop of Indian dancing girls, who performed before the prince in the public square. At
a signal from the vizier a side pavilion opened, and thirty or forty bayaderes glided out together, and
commenced an intricate dance. They were received with a tremendous round of applause from the
audience; but, with the exception of a little more elegance in the four who led the dance, they were
dressed nearly alike; and as I saw no particularly conspicuous figure, I presumed that Taglioni had not
yet appeared. The splendor of the spectacle bewildered me for the first moment or two, but I present-
ly found my eyes rivetted to a childish creature floating about among the rest, and taking her for some
beautiful young eleve making her first essays in the chorus, I interpreted her extraordinary fascina-
tion as a triumph of nature over my unsophisticated taste; and wondered to myself whether, after
all, I should be half so much captivated with the show of skill I expected presently to witness. This was
Taglioni! She came forward directly, in a pas seul, and I then observed that her dress was distinguished
from that of her companions by its extreme modesty both of fashion and ornament, and the uncon-
strained ease with which it adapted itself to her shape and motion. She looks not more than fifteen.
Her figure is small, but rounded to the very last degree of perfection; not a muscle swelled beyond
the exquisite outline; not an angle, not a fault. Her back and neck, those points so rarely beautiful
in woman, are faultlessly formed; her feet and hands are in full proportion to her size, and the
former play as freely and with as natural a yieldingness in her fairy slippers, as if they were accus-
tomed only to the dainty uses of a drawing-room. Her face is most strangely interesting; not
quite beautiful, but of that half-appealing, half-re tiring sweetness that you sometimes see blended with
the secluded reserve and unconscious refinement of a young girl just “out” in a circle of high fashion.
In her greatest exertions her features retain the same timid half smile, and she returns to the alternate
by-play of her part without the slightest change of color, or the slightest perceptible difference in her
breathing, or in the ease of her look and posture. No language can describe her motion. She
swims in your eye like a curl of smoke, or a flake of down. Her difficulty seems to be to keep to
the floor. You have the feeling while you gaze upon her, that, if she were to rise and float away like
Ariel, you would scarce be surprised. And yet all is done with such a childish unconsciousness of ad-
miration, such a total absence of exertion or fatigue, that the delight with which she fills you is
unmingled; and, assured as you are by the perfect purity of every look and attitude, that her
hitherto spotless reputation is deserved beyond a breath of suspicion, you leave her with as much
respect as admiration; and find with surprise that a dancing girl, who is exposed night after night
to a profaning gaze of the world, has crept into one of the most sacred niches of your memory.
‘Pencillings by the Way” by N. P. Willis.
Inscription from reverse side of photograph on page opposite.
A few lines may be spared to chronicle the death in the same year (1884) of Madame Taglioni,
the most famous dancer that ever moved on a stage. She made her first appearance in London in
1829, and all London and all England went wild over her, as the whole European continent had done.
In tha later years of her life she visited London a good deal, and she maintained herself by giving
lessons in dancing. She was then quite an old woman, sweet and grave in manner, and who carried
with her no reminder of the extraordinary brilliancy of her past career. One who met her at a house
in London on the evening of a great Epsom day happened to ask her if she had ever seen the
Derby. Her answer was pathetic in its very unconsciousness. She said that she had seen the Derby more
than once “dans ma jeunesse.” Dans ma jeunesse! Such a youth, such a brilliant time, with emperors
and kings for her patrons, and whole populations in rhapsody of enthusiasm about her! She bore her
old age gracefully, and did not seem in the least embittered by her obscurity and her decline . . .
History of Our Own Times, Justin McCarthy [London)
1 19
The San Carlo Theatre of Naples where Cerrito made her debut, 1835, in “L’Oroscopo.”
But at Milan it was another story. The divine Taglioni and Mile. Ceritto took turns dancing
at L.a Scala. Here was something to really get worked up about. The enthusiasm shown night after
night surpasses the powers of the imagination, and I shall resist the temptation of describing it before
seeing it. The firm structure of the hall attests the highest tribute to its architect, for it has with-
stood the most dreadful ordeals of this dilletantism during three whole months. Fortunately it all
happened in Northern Italy where the German influence may have contributed a degree of restraint.
At Florence the public was divided between two dancers, one tall, the other petite. It was
another war of the Montagues and Capulets. Bouquets gave place to super-bouquets, then wreaths,
and there was apprehension lest the two subjects perish — smothered under a deluge of flowers. Luxury
ran riot; a follower of the tall dancer threw silver- wreathed leaves. Friends of the smaller hurled
leaves of gold. One evening a bundle all tied up landed on the stage: it was a velvet robe. Nothing
daunted the other faction answered the next evening with a Cashmere shawl. It was already rumored
in the citv that a certain lord baion, leader of one group, was conniving ways and means of letting
in upon the proscenium a four horse coach with driver, which doubtless would have been countered
with an actual castle complete with turrets and moats. The end of the dramatic year put a stop to this
magnificent crescendo. Paul De Musset “Voyage en Italie, ( ca. 1943)
120
Mi) )/ ^ei'i'itc
//
In the course of the renaissance of
ballet in recent years at least two books
apiece have been devoted to each of
those dancers who form what is generally
regarded as the triumvirate of the
Romantic Ballet, — Taglioni, Elssler, and
Carlotta Grisi. None about Cerrito. But
perhaps to some her youthful naiad
figure may have emerged distinct from
the shadows of her sister ballerinas; in-
deed, to us with such vividness and con-
viction as to come to life in the present
in such a way as to transform many a
common place experience with an unex-
pected and overwhelming measure of her
gracious art.
Limitations of space allow the presen-
tation of but a fraction of a boxed
homage-album to this dancer, eventual-
ly to house^ besides a modern treatment,
a museum of contemporary descriptions,
action poses, portraits, press notices;
“compensation” costume fragments,
photographs, “reconstructed” memora-
bilia, etc. Museum excerpts only are
presented here.
To conjure, even for a moment, the wist-
fulness which is the past is like trying to gather
in one’s arms the hyacinthine color of the
distance.
The past is only the present become in-
visible and mute; and because it is invisible
and mute, its memoried glances and its mur-
mers are infinitely precious. We are tomorrc'A'’s
past. Even now we slip away like those pic-
tures painted on the moving dials of antique
clocks — a ship, a cottage, sun and moon, a
nosegay. The dial turns, the ship rides up and
sinks again, the yellow painted sun has set, and
we, that were the new thing, gather magic as
wa go.
Mary Webb from foreword to “Precious Bane,”
Jonathon Cape, London.
THE FRONTISPIECE portrait (Inside cover) shows Fanny Cerrito between the years 1855 and
I860 and, It Is easily possible, from new light shed on her career by Mr. George Chaffee
In "The Romantic Ballet In London" (Dance Index — Vol. II, Nos. 9, 10, II, 12), before her
dancing days were over. This photograph falls exactly halfway between the Kriehuber litho-
graph above (1842) and the cartes-de-visites of Cerrito In retirement (1875) In the Harvard
Theatre Collection.
. . . we should mention Francesca Cerito, whose debut had taken place at the Scala, in Milan, and
who owes her success to the famous pas de cjuatre, which she danced in London in company with
Taglioni, Carlotta Grisi, and Lucille Grahn. No one carried farther than Cerito the love of her art.
In order to preserve the graceful outline of her knees, she always slept in a certain position, with her
feet strapped to the bed-post.
Magazine article by Rosita Mauri (1895)
Louis Napoleon was taken sick at Compiegne, and for some
hours the household were much alarmed. The chances of the pos-
sibility of establishing Jerome were earnestly canvassed, but the ap-
plication of leeches saved us from that miserable realization. I will
not undertake to say how many times the Emperor was shot at
during his sojourn in the North; everyday brought forth some new
revolver or infernal machine. The papers are never allowed to
mention any illness or indisposition of the Emperor’s, in the present
tense. They are never permitted to say the Emperor is sick. When
he has recovered, the intelligence is made public. So that those who
are not in the way of hearing verbal news, learn of his convalescence
before they heard of his being unwell. The Moniteur is less scrupulous
when Jerome’s maladies are concerned, and announced the other
day, with a painful bluntness, that that gentleman was in bed with
the grippe, and could not receive on Wednesday evening. He may
have ’oeen too sick to see company, but he was not too sick to see
Cerrito, and was present at the rentree of that delightful danseuse,
in the new ballet of Orfa.
January 6th, 1853.
Cerito, Cerrito, Ceritto, Cerritto, Cherito, — same person.
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9 9 9
Another illustration occurs in the history of Jedediah Buxton, the plowman, of wonderful arithmetical
capacities. You might have given him the size of the circumference of a wheel, and he would have
told you on the spot how many circumvolutions it would make in going round the globe. This was his
only forte. In almost all other points he was deficient. As usual in England, they lionized the plow-
man. Among other places, they took him to the Opera. Upon inquiring what he thought of the
celebrated dancer, he replied, “Wonderful! she danced . . . steps in so many minutes!” That was all
that he had attended to; that was all that he remembered. The gracefulness, the attitudes, the science
were all thrown away on him, and would be soon forgotten. Only in his own particular department of
numbers, where his attention was stimulated by habit, did he see or remember anything.
Prefatory Observations to Mons. Zaba’s Lecture on Polish Mnemonics by Frederick W. Robertson, M.A.
122
Carriages and Crinolines (Fanny Cerrito Album)
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tl
— I-e Quatuor danse a Londres
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The thin faded pamphlet
biography of Leopold de
Meyer ( “imperial and royal
court pianist, by diploma, to
their majesties the Emperors
of Austria and Russia”) states
that in 1845 (the year of the
Pas de Quatre) “ ‘new epithets
were invented bv the Paris
feuillitonnistes to describe M.
de Meyer’s powers and peculi-
arities, and burlesque casts in
plaster and lithographic carica-
tures were seen in every shop,
more truly testifying his
popularity and greatness than
all the praises expended by the
entire press.’ It is in such
waggish mode the wits of the
French capital are wont to dis-
play their talents on those — and
those only — of highest note.
Witness their casts of Rossini,
Paganini, and Berlioz.”
But “keyboard lions” like
Leopold de Meyer that flour-
ished so abundantly in the
Romantic era (Thalberg, Jaell,
et. al.) left little with which
to attach themselves to pos-
terity. It is generally in old
bound volumes of sheet music
such as once graced the racks
of Victorian pianos (the proud
owners’ names stamped elegant-
Iv in gold on marbleized board
covers) that we stumble across
their “creations" — transcrip-
tions, arrangements, operatic
pot-pourris, etc. Such is the
case of the Pas de Quatre,
passed off as de Meyer’s own
but which more correctly should have been designated as “transcrit et varie pour le pianoforte,”
as another of his arrangements was so marked. We are grateful that de Meyer left this curious
souvenir of the apotheosis of the Romantic Ballet, for outside of the original Pugni manuscript in
the British Museum it is possible that it is the only other record extant.
Inscribed in a Victorian hand at the beginning of the music, — “outrageously hard but perfectly
lovely.”
Taglioni, Charlotte Grisi.
Cerrito et Fanny Elsler.
Compose par
''ICNNE CHEZ A OIABEIU
s di U Cour Imp Orabco N
.Vote on de Meyer's keyboard style: “But in all this savage energy,
there were moments, for what would it have been worth but for these
— in which he tickled the piano into the sweetest and most dulcet
harmonies, and tickled the souls of his hearers as they listened to
him, out of their five senses — moments, in which wearied himself for
the time by his previous labor, and prepairing himself for a new toil,
he wove the most delicate melodies in with his music, and compelled
vou to hear and love him in spite of his fat, fleshy and sensual face,
and unmeaning blue eyes. Scarcely, however, would you have begun
to do so, than whack - slash - thump and bang came his hand down
upon the keys, and all your gentler emotions were knocked upon the
head, and indefinitely thrust out of your heart by that savage thunder.
“You Have Heard of Them” by Q.
Drawn from life by ANDRIEU, after the Lion gave his eighth Concert with
extraordinary success at the St. Charles Theatre, New Orleans, April 1846
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The Shadow Dance from “Midsummer Night’s Dream”
on Stereoscope card. {ca. 1870)
Romantic period lithograph from sheet music cover.
Nora Kaye, Alicia Markova, Annabelle Lyon, and Irina
Baronova in 1942 revival. (Photo by
Dr. Hans von Kuffner.)
Pablo Picasso
It was that hour just before sunrise when the world seems absolutely colorless, when
it gives indeed a sense of negation of color. The rich hues of night have withdrawn, oozed
away like the waves from a shore, and all the colors of daytime lie dormant in the land-
scape like in the paints used for pottery, which are all alike gray clay until they come out
in the furnace. And in this still world there is a tremendous promise.
The old man, gray in his gray cloak, would have been nearly invisible even to some-
body looking for him. In fact he felt extremely lonely, as if he knew that he could not
be seen. He dared not put his hand to the shutter for fear of making a noise. With his
hands on his back he leaned forward and peeped in.
He had hardly ever been more surprised. The long gardenroom with its three French
windows opening on to the terrace was painted a sky blue, much faded with time. There
was but little furniture in the room, and what there was had been pushed back against
the walls. But from the ceiling in the middle of the room hung a fine old chandelier,
and it was all ablaze, every candle in it being lighted. The big Russian music box was
open, placed upon the old dumb spinet, and was pouring forth in high clear notes the
tune of a mazurka.
The young mistress of the house stood on the tips of her toes in the middle of the
room. She had on the very short diaphanous frock of a ballet dancer, and her little
heelless shoes were fastened with black ribbons laced around her delicate ankles and legs.
She held her arms over her head, gracefully rounded, and stood quite still, watching the
music, her face like the placid, happy face of a doll.
As her bar of music fell in, she suddenly came to life. She lifted her right leg
slowly, slowly, the toe pointing straight at the Councilor, higher and higher, as if she
were really rising from the ground and about to fly. Then she brought it down again,
slowly, slowly, on the tip of the toe, with a little gentle pat, no more than a fingertap upon
the table.
The spectator outside held his breath. As before, on watching the ballet at Vienna,
he had the feeling that this was too much; it could not be done. And then it was
done, lightly, as in jest. One begins to doubt the fall of man, and not to worry about
it, when a young dancer can thus rise from it again.
Standing upon the tip of her right toe now, she lifted her left leg, slowly, high up,
opened her arms in a swift audacious movement, whirled all around herself, and began
to dance. The dance was more than a real mazurka, very fiery and light, lasting perhaps
two minutes: a humming top, a flower, a flame dancing, a play upon the law of gravita-
tion, a piece of celestial drollery. It was also a bit of acting: love, sweet innocence,
tears, a sursum cordae expressed in music and movement. In the middle of it there was a
little pause to frighten the audience, but it went on all the same, only even more admirably,
as if transposed into a higher key. Just as the music box gave signs of running down, she
looked straight at the Councilor and sank down upon the floor in a graceful heap, like a
flower flung stem upward, exactly as if her legs had been cut off with a pair of scissors.
The Councilor knew enough about the art of the ballet to value this as a very high
class performance. He knew enough about the pretty things in life altogether to value this
early morning apparition altogether as a vision worthy of the Czar Alexander himself, if
it came to that.
At her direct clear glance he took alarm and drew back a little. When he looked
in again she had got up, but remained as if irresolute, and did not turn on the box again.
There was a long mirror in the room. Pressing the palm of her hand gently upon the glass
she bent forward and kissed her own silvery image within it. Then she took up a long ex-
tinguisher, and one by one* she put out the candles of the chandelier. She opened the door
and was gone.
— The Poet, from Seven Gothic Tales, by Isak Dinesen.
Mosa'ique of Swiss scenes. Drawn by Rudolph Topfer (ca. 1839) {From Fanny Cerrito Albu
“I shall conclude by making an oration in praise of the highly talented Madame
Batavia; no language can do justice to her inimitable powers as a danseuse; first she
irounded on three legs, then upon two, afterward upon one side, then changed to the
other, now on cross-legs, and then ended by hopping about upon one. Not even Taglioni
herself, who is certainly highly accomplished in the use of her legs, will ever be able to
arrive at this grade of perfection, for a most palpable reason because she has but two!”
of ‘Madame Batavia, charming poodle and
darling of the public’